To Suffocate in Sand and Blood
by Nos
Summary: There's more than one way to drown. Now an attempt to finish a nine year old WIP. Post Grave, and the long journey home.
1. Perish

To Suffocate in Sand and Blood  
By Nos  
  
  
  
Summary: There is more than one way to drown. S/B  
  
  
  
Rating: R for now  
  
  
Authors Notes: I know I promised a sequel to When Darkness Falls. And I   
know I am not finished with Leashing yet (at the moment I am writing this).   
But, when an idea grabs you, there is nothing you can do but write it. I   
will write this and Leashing at the same time. But I had to write this, as   
soon as possible. Just one of those things. One more thing, I know everyone   
is doing the "Post Grave" fic. Myself, I haven't read very many of them,   
but I am trying to do something a little different here. Poetry used in   
this chapter from e e cummings' 'What if a Much of a Which of a Wind'.   
Poetry used in prologue by Arthur Rimbaud.  
  
Many thanks to: To fleisch of course, for beta'ing. And to cousinjean and Nautibits. And everyone at TWoP and Crumbling Walls.   
  
  
  
  
  
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Prologue: Perish  
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"I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun   
butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood.   
Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud, and dried myself   
off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of   
madness..."  
-Arthur Rimbaud  
  
  
  
He had once said that pain can be a highly powerful motivator.  
  
  
It can shape your thoughts, bend your will, break you. And Spike had known   
pain in his existence. You could say that pain was his shadow, always   
there, hiding, waiting. He'd often wondered what an existence without pain   
would be. If living would have shaped him in the same ways, sharpened his   
edges. Probably not. But was he going to thank it for making him this   
way?  
  
  
Hell, no.  
  
  
Pain had always driven him on, however. Pain drove him into the arms of   
Drusilla as a mortal man, and greeted him when he awoke, gasping for air he   
no longer needed. Dru's pain had driven him to Sunnydale in the first   
place, desperate for a cure. It had made him flee Sunnydale in the end,   
struggling to mend the rift between him and his lover. And like a moth to a   
flame, it drew him back, before forcing him away again, twice now. But   
oddly, it was becoming a deterrent. Pain had kept him from killing for   
nearly four years now. And not just the chip-induced migraines. Even he   
understood now that something else had held him back. In the beginning, it   
might have been purely the chip. But quickly, it became something more   
noble, he might hope. Love is the most noble force in the universe. Right?  
  
  
And the most powerful.  
  
  
If you looked at all the times pain moved him, you would see it wasn't the   
only thing that drove him. Love was always there, in some form or another.   
Whether it was healing Dru or keeping his mouth shut under Glory's probing   
finger. It was love, just love, that had driven him from Sunnydale this   
final time.  
  
  
And so here he was, sharp stone stabbing his bare back, sand working its way   
into the cuts, as he scrambled frantically to avoid some sort of demon   
intent on burning him to a nice crisp with its flaming fists.  
  
  
Local Boy kicked him in the side, hard, and he rolled with it, using the   
momentum to find his footing again. The demon followed, relentless, sending   
blow after blow to the very flammable vampire's exposed flesh. He couldn't   
even block without getting wounded, and this was gonna get old, real fast.  
  
  
Another blow sent him crashing into the wall, stars exploding behind his   
eyes from the direct hit. He slid to his knees, the rough stone abrading   
his back, and the demon paused, toying with him, allowing him to stumble   
back to his feet. He drew himself up, and gave his opponent a bloody smirk.  
  
  
"Had enough?"  
  
  
He barely had time to get the taunt out before another fist of flame caught   
him in the face, followed by a hard blow to the stomach that left him   
gasping in pain. He found himself on his knees again, another deadly punch   
screaming for his face. Instinct caught him, and his hand caught the demon's   
before he even had time to think. The acrid smell of his own burning   
flesh brought him back to the present.  
  
  
"Ow!" He pushed the fist away, his strength causing the demon to   
stagger back slightly. He shook his hand quickly, attempting to cool the   
blistering skin.  
  
  
"Bad move, bad move..."  
  
  
He looked up just in time to see another blow coming. Why was this wanker   
always going for the face? He twisted his body, the punch sailing by his   
cheek, and grabbed the demon's arm above the wrist. A quick flip, and the   
bastard was on the ground. Wasting no time, he brought his bare foot back,   
sending it crashing into the demon's balls with enough power to make Spike's   
own leg ache.  
  
  
It didn't bring the much sought shriek of pain, God knows he'd earned it,   
but it did cause the demon to roll over in agony, clutching his wounded   
parts. Spike took the opportunity, jumping on the thing's back. In only   
seconds his hands were around the demon's head, and he jerked with all his   
strength, snapping its neck with a satisfying crack.  
  
  
Nothing left to do, Spike rose up carefully, panting, looking down at his   
most recent victim. Only a moment's rest, before he staggered away, watching   
the other demon, the one hosting this soiree, step into view.  
  
  
"Looks like Local Boy loses." Spike said, with what little breath he had   
left.  
  
  
"So it would appear." Lurky responded, glowing green eyes regarding HIS   
latest victim.  
  
  
"Good on me, then." He paused, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth.   
"So? I get what I came for? I passed, right"  
  
  
"Indeed. You have passed the first stage of the test."  
  
  
Spike nodded, more than ready for his reward.  
  
  
"Right, then I..." He blinked, frowning. "Wait...FIRST stage?"  
  
  
He hung his head.  
  
  
"Bugger."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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Chapter One: Give Truth To The Summer's Lie  
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"What if a much of a which of a wind  
gives truth to the summer's lie;  
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun,  
and yanks immortal stars awry?  
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem  
(blow friend to fiend: blow space to time)  
-when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,  
the single secret will still be man..."  
e e cummings  
  
  
  
  
  
"So, what's next then?" Spike asked, pacing. His body ached, burns still   
stinging him, but he forged on. The sooner it was over, the better.  
  
  
The demon moved, barely coming into the scattered torchlight.  
  
  
"Patience." The gravely voice responded, its long thin tail curling   
outward toward the room.  
  
  
Spike eyed the tail dubiously.  
  
  
"Just bloody get on with it, will ya? Bring on the nasties."  
  
  
The tip of the demon's tail touched the ground at Spike's feet.  
  
  
"Sit." It commanded.  
  
  
Spike frowned, stopping mid-pace.  
  
  
"I don't need a rest, mate, much as I appreciate the offer. Let's just get   
on with the next bleedin' trial!"  
  
  
"Patience is the next trial. Sit." The tail tip tapped the ground.  
  
  
Spike shrugged, and did as he was told, wincing slightly as he crossed   
his legs.  
  
  
The tail moved, dragging the ground, drawing a perfect circle in the sand   
surrounding him.  
  
  
"So...What's the rules?" Spike asked, shifting, resting his hands on his   
knees.  
  
  
"Disturb the circle, or speak, and you fail."  
  
  
Spike eyed the circle, less than two inches from where his knees crossed.   
Simple enough, yeah? He'd lied before, he did need to rest. Though sitting   
as he was wouldn't afford much respite, at least it was a chance to regroup, catch   
his breath, so to speak.  
  
  
He breathed in slow, even tones, closing his eyes. Easy, he repeated to   
himself, one of his fingers twitching. Bugger that, he knew he'd never been any   
good at the waiting around. He could already feel the need to do SOMETHING   
burning through his veins, making his muscles twitch. Buck up, mate, he   
thought. It's only been three minites. Grow a bloody pair already.  
  
  
It started to get hotter, the air thicker. Claustrophobia clawed at him,   
the feeling that the space around him was enclosed scant inches from his   
skin. Panicked, he snapped his eyes open, to find the cave unchanged.  
  
  
Driving yourself 'round the bend...  
  
  
He breathed again, noticed the air had a spicy tang to it. He let the   
scent flood his senses, anything to get his mind off the dimming light, and   
the fact that his breath was the only sound, seeming absurdly loud, echoing   
off the cavern walls.  
  
  
When that didn't work, he started to get nervous again. His eyes darted   
around the rapidly darkening room. A sound, almost a whisper, sounded to   
his right. He jerked, shifting his eyes that way, seeing nothing but   
overwhelming darkness that even his preternatural sight couldn't breach.  
  
  
Resisting the urge to call out, he turned his eyes slowly back to the   
front. Maybe not slowly enough, disorientation causing his head to spin,   
turning his stomach.  
  
  
Suddenly, the metallic ring of metal on metal came to him. He strained his   
eyes, trying to sort through what appeared to be shadows moving in the   
darkness. A scuffle, then feet moving, kicking up dirt. He twitched   
again.  
  
  
"Spike!" A voice screamed, fear pulsing through the sound. It nearly   
pulled him from his circle, and he fought for control. He squeezed his eyes   
shut. It's not really her, it's not really her...  
  
  
When the noise stopped, he peeked his eyes open again, choking at what he   
saw. Before him, the nightscape of Sunnydale, as viewed from 20-plus   
stories in the air, thousands of tiny twinkling lights, all blissfully   
unaware of what was going on above them. The narrow plankwalk of metal,   
stretching out a path to where Doc stood, holding a knife close to the   
sobbing Dawn.  
  
  
"Spike!" She screamed again, begging this time. Doc finally turned to   
regard him, his eyes filling with disdain.  
  
  
"Why do you even care?" He asked, tilting his head, as if Spike were some   
strange bug to be studied, or crushed.  
  
  
He clenched his jaw, fists balling in the fabric of his jeans. So Lurky   
thought he could mind fuck him eh? He knew this wasn't real. But the urge   
to run out and protect his Bit was strong nonetheless.  
  
  
Doc shrugged when he didn't respond, and turned back.  
  
  
"Shallow cuts....Shallow cuts..." his 'Mr-Rogers-gone-bad' voice chanted   
softly, and Dawn screamed.  
  
  
Spike's fingernails cut into the palms of his hands, and he shut his eyes   
again, struggling to control his breathing.  
  
  
"You killed her, Spike!" Dawn's voice cried. "She had to jump because YOU   
weren't good enough!"  
  
  
Then stillness. Blessed stillness.  
  
  
Please be over, please be over...  
  
  
A bright flash of light forced his eyes open again, the strobing making him   
dizzy.  
  
  
Images flashed in quick succession: Dawn's bloodied corpse lying in   
twisted metal wreckage, Buffy's replacing it, Tara's throat ripped open,   
blood pouring from her silently screaming mouth, Willow stripped naked, her   
flesh seared from her bones, Xander's heart's blood pouring from a wound in   
his chest, Giles's head twisted clean off his body, Joyce lying crookedly   
on a red surface, pale skin and eyes open, Buffy a vampire, Dawn a   
vampire, Willow a vampire....  
  
  
I always thought she'd make an excellent demon.  
  
  
All fantasies he'd had, at one point or another, during his life in   
Sunnydale. The sight sickened him now, as the urge to flee warred with the   
ongoing mantra of "This isn't real.." pouring through his mind.  
  
  
One last flash and darkness again.  
  
  
He was panting now.  
  
  
The quiet sound of sobbing came through this time, followed by a muted   
thump. The darkness exploded into harsh fluorescent light, blotting out the   
darkness painfully, making his eyes ache. The sobbing continued, though all   
he could see was white.  
  
  
"Spike, no, please no..." the voice cried, and he slammed his eyes shut,   
his entire body tensing, jaw creaking. Fuck. Very clever.  
  
  
The scene replayed itself in his mind, the brightness of the room and his   
own crazed emotions muting the details. His own dark form hovering over   
her, pulling violently, pushing, making her shake and shudder under him. He   
had attacked her as a man, and she'd responded as a woman, until he forced   
the Slayer out of her, ending his assault.  
  
  
Tears poured down his cheeks. It was so goddamned bright...  
  
  
And he'd dimmed her by touching that light. His blackness had rubbed off   
on her, gray as the robe she was wearing.  
  
  
Still, he didn't flee. He had to be strong, if only to right this wrong   
he'd committed. For her. For everything.  
  
  
Give her what she deserves. Never to be faced with that again.  
  
  
The light vanished, and he prepared for the next onslaught, muscles   
clenched.  
  
  
"You have passed the second trial, vampire."  
  
  
Spike collapsed on his side, panting, sucking in sand from the cavern   
floor. 


	2. Blow Hope to Terror

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait. I just wanted everything to   
perfect.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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Chapter Two: Blow Hope to Terror  
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"What if a keen of a lean wind flays  
screaming hills with sleet and snow:  
strangles valleys by ropes of a thing  
and stifles forests in white ago?  
Blow hope to terror; blow seeing to blind  
(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)  
—whose hearts are mountains, roots are tree,  
it's they shall cry hello to the spring..."  
-E. E. Cummings  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
His skin was still twitching. The last trial had left him emotionally   
shattered. Patience my ass. It was more like a full on mind fuck.  
  
  
  
Good thing this one was easier.  
  
  
  
He lost himself in combat, pounding out his fury and fear into the flesh of   
the demon twins, searing his pain into their bones. And repaid in full,   
branding him as well, marking him with their fists and horns. This is what   
he was good at, this was what he was born to too.  
  
  
  
'Born to slash....and bash....and bleed....like beautiful poetry....'  
  
  
  
He howled in defiance, ripping the head off first one, then the other   
demon. Easy as pie. Bastards hadn't been much of a challenge. He wondered   
if this consituted a rest period.  
  
  
  
He kicked one of the heads toward the center of the cave, spitting out a   
mouthful of blood, before following with the other.  
  
  
  
"Right then. That was a bloody doddle and a piece o'piss..." He dropped   
the head and sank to his knees. He was exhausted, bleeding and bruised, but   
he wasn't going to give up.  
  
  
  
"Got any more ruddy tests, ya ponce? I'll take anything you throw at me.   
If it'll get me what I need to take care of the Slayer, give her what's   
coming to her.....you just bring it on.  
Bring on the whole...."  
  
  
  
He trailed off. The floor of the cave seemed to move, undulating in a   
shiny black wave that rushed toward him. More mind fucking, was it? He   
tensed, straightening up....  
  
  
  
The wave suddenly came into focus, and it wasn't a wave at all. Thousands   
of little black shapes, all bunched together and pushing toward him.  
  
  
  
"Bloody hell..." he whispered, not knowing what part of what trial this   
would be, but fleeing in abject terror wouldn't pass him, would it? Let the   
bastard do what he will.  
  
  
  
He twitched as the first beetle touched him, crawling up his torn pant leg,   
hundreds of its brethren following, swarming up his body en masse, flowing   
over him. He jerked his head back, trying to keep them off his face, but   
they seemed to know that was where he did not want them.  
  
  
  
He was covered before a second had passed. They nipped at his wounds,   
trying to dig under his flesh, tiny legs crawling under his pants, through   
the tear, rooting through his hair. He began to get dizzy, the sensation   
like drowning, only not in water, but in FUCKING BUGS, as one paused at his   
nose, before pushing its way in, tearing the soft flesh...  
  
  
  
He choked, his eyes flashing open, staring at the cave ceiling in the   
flickering light. He slammed them shut again when a beetle nipped at his   
eyelash. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even twitch,   
and there were beetles crawling around INSIDE him....  
  
  
  
He wasn't aware he had passed out. His first thought upon waking was 'Oh   
God, I failed...', but failing couldn't hurt this much, could it? His entire   
body burned, marking the path the beetles had trod. His next realization was   
that they were still inside him, biting away, pulling at vulnerable flesh.   
He had the overwhelming urge to rip his own skin off and dig them out one by   
one.  
  
  
  
  
Feeling like some strange junkie, he found his way back to his knees,   
trembling, fingers twitching to dig into his own skin, gagging at the   
feeling of foreign bodies moving around within his own.  
  
  
  
"You have passed the third and fourth trials, vampire."  
  
  
  
He forced himself to look up, and responded through clenched teeth.  
  
  
  
"Yeah? Gonna do anything about this nasty side effect?"  
  
  
  
"In due time. I am here to make you an offer, now."  
  
  
  
Spike blinked. An offer?  
  
  
  
A rumbling chuckle rolled from the shadows.  
  
  
  
"You can choose to continue, and gain what you seek. Or we can reward you   
from this point. We will remove your handicap, and the love for the woman   
in question."  
  
  
  
Suddenly, Spike saw two paths stretched out before him.  
  
  
  
One, blood flowed like wine, the world trembled at the sound of his name,   
death, carnage....  
  
  
  
The other, showed him a lonely man, sitting alone, screaming his sorrow to   
the sky....  
  
  
  
"What?" He gasped, confused. "You can't make me choose that."  
  
  
  
"We can. And we will. Choose, vampire."  
  
  
  
The beetles paused in their morbid explorations; the whole world, it seemed,   
held its breath.  
  
  
  
He gritted his teeth, nearly weeping for joy at the sudden stop to the   
squirming inside him.  
  
  
  
"Give me...what I need...Gotta be what she deserves..."  
  
  
  
"So you choose to continue?"  
  
  
  
"Bloody right I do, you stupid..." His voice trailed off, into a biting   
scream, as the beetles went into a frenzy, desperate to escape the confines   
of his body.  
  
  
  
They ripped out of him, swarming back into the darkness, leaving bloody   
trails in the sand.  
  
  
  
He coughed as the last one crawled from between his lips, falling backward   
onto the cave floor, the high ceiling spinning with pain. Blackness   
consumed him, and the world faded once again....  
  
  
  
'Shhh.....It's alright.' A soft hand, tending wounds. 'You're doing it.   
You're almost there.'  
  
  
  
So achingly familar, that touch. The same touch that had cleansed the stab wound  
and set his bones after the long fall from the tower....  
  
  
  
"Tara? Am I dead?"  
  
  
  
'Not yet....'  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The world came back into focus. His eyes fluttered open, the shadow   
passing over him in the flickering torchlight.  
  
  
  
"You have endured the required trials."  
  
  
  
He licked his lips, tasting his own blood. Could he even speak...?  
  
  
  
"Bloody right I have..."  
  
  
  
Seems he could. Not going to do this stretched out like a corpse. The   
victory of raising an arm elated him, followed by an ever greater one of   
pushing himself to his knees, swaying slightly, but damned if he didn't stay   
upright. He coughed, and spoke again.  
  
  
  
"So, give me what I want. Make me what I was..." he drew a cleansing   
breath. "...so Buffy can get what she deserves."  
  
  
  
The demon shifted again, moving closer.  
  
  
  
"Very well."  
  
  
  
Its over. Bloody. Over. Finally.  
  
  
  
"We will return your soul..."  
  
  
  
The demon's hand reaches out, pressed against his chest, and...  
  
  
  
Fire. Burning, screaming, living through his veins. The bastard's double   
crossed me! He's burning me alive....  
  
  
  
His head fell back and he screamed, light filling his eyes, burning his   
vision, melting his bones, and oh god, the pain was too much, he wasn't   
going to survive this...  
  
  
  
But then, he'd been dead for awhile, hadn't he?  
  
  
  
The crushing sensation, the feeling of something being poured into a space   
that didn't fit it, and suddenly his own skin was too tight, and he couldn't   
see for all the brightness....  
  
  
  
  
And the world came crashing back with the scent of charred flesh and dead   
blood. He fell back with a thump, boneless, staring up at nothing. Nausea   
twisted in his gut. Oh the pain....  
  
  
  
Funny, he still wanted to dig through his own flesh, though the beetles   
were long gone.  
  
  
  
I'm fine, he thought, fine. It's nothing. Just a soul.  
  
  
He rolled over onto his side, vomiting up what was left of the meal he'd   
had back in Sunnydale, and passed out for the third time. 


	3. Out of His Grave

Authors Notes: Much thanks to Beamer and fleisch for Beta'ing this chapter. It was most helpful.   
  
  
  
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Chapter Three: Out of His Grave  
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"What if a dawn of a doom of a dream  
bites this universe in two,  
peels forever out of his grave  
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?  
Blow soon to never and never to twice  
(blow life to isn't blow death to was)  
-all nothing's our hugest home;  
the most who die, the more we live."  
  
  
  
-E. E Cummings  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Weightless. Nothing touched him.  
  
  
  
It's funny how dreams are like that. How the worries of the outside world melt away. You don't remember things, like the fact that you're really lying on the floor of a cave half a world away from anyone you care about.  
  
  
  
But that wasn't important here. Here, he was standing in a field, rolling grass stretching to the horizon, waving in the gentle breeze. When he inhaled, the only scents that came to him were old dirt and pollens. The scents of untouched life. He wasn't wounded, he wasn't in pain. His toes dug into the moist soil beneath him, but he was still floating. At total peace with himself and the world. It didn't even seem odd at the time.  
  
  
  
There was electricity in the air, the wind carrying the faintest hint of rain. Thunder rolled in the distance, and he looked up, marveling at how the clouds moved, twisted, dancing, preparing to lend rain to the earth below, to nourish and feed the land. Though the storm seemed as if it would be violent, there was no sense of impending doom; just the feeling of belonging, being complete. Everything was right, though he had no idea why.  
  
  
  
"Beautiful..." he murmered murmured, watching the clouds move closer, tasting the tangy air, dancing with life.  
  
  
  
"Because this is the way it's supposed to be."  
  
  
  
He turned around, curious of this intrusion, to find Tara standing behind him, her long hair moving to the rhythm of the wind.   
  
  
  
"This is how it all started. And this is how it will be in the end."  
  
  
  
He smiled, raising his face toward the sky as the clouds opened, trickling rain upon them both.  
  
  
  
"Good. Everyone should know."  
  
  
  
She smiled too, watching him, the rain leaving her untouched and dry while it soaked him.  
  
  
  
"But you forget, William. You've done something. You know that right?"  
  
  
  
A flicker of worry passed over him, before it was gone again. He understood.  
  
  
  
"Yes. I found what I was looking for."  
  
  
  
"You did. And the worlds stand up to take notice. You passed the trials."  
  
  
  
He nodded, looking over the quickly flooding ground.  
  
  
  
"All tests. I was worthy."  
  
  
  
She moved closer, the dress flowing in the wind, still untouched by the rain.  
  
  
  
"Tests, William. But remember what tests always are."  
  
  
  
The world began to fade, and the sand was coming back, digging into his back.....  
  
  
  
"Preparation....."   
  
  
  
His eyes snapped open.  
  
  
  
There was a moment of panic. A brief moment, but terrifying nonetheless, where he didn't know where he was or how he got there, or why he was in so much damned pain. When it clicked, the terror lessened, but he was frightened still. He felt as if the cave had collapsed, that it was pressing on his chest, in sharp contrast to the weightlessness of the dream he was barely able to recall now. And the tightness of his skin, the feeling that he was too large for it to hold, wasn't going away.  
  
  
  
He took stock of himself. Aching head, chest, arms, legs.... Okay, different approach. Still Spike? Seems so. Feeling pretty shitty? Check.  
  
  
At least he had that.  
  
  
  
Sitting up took way more energy than it should of.  
  
  
  
Finding his vision a little blurry (tears? what?), he peered around the cave, drawing his arms to his chest, blinking. He was alone. The sun was setting. Had he slept the day away?  
  
  
  
Jesus, this was bad. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, trying to...what? Now what? He had it. Got what he came for. Leave?  
  
  
  
He staggered to his feet, sniffling. Boots. Boots are good.  
  
  
  
He found them, after a moment, along with his discarded shirt. Boots on, laces undone. He winced as he slipped the shirt over his shoulders, leaving it open so it wouldn't further aggravate the wounds on his chest. Dressed.  
  
  
  
He took a deep breath. He felt...pretty emotionless actually. Which was slightly disconcerting. Maybe he was still in shock. Wasn't there supposed to be screaming and crying, great gnashing of teeth, and pulling of hair?  
  
  
  
His thoughts, though, were troubling. He couldn't for the life of him remember how he got here. He was supposed to go back. As soon as possible. That had been the plan. Go to Africa, get soul, come back. Pretty simple as plans go. He wondered if they even noticed he was gone yet. How much time had passed since he'd roared out of Sunnydale, fire in his eyes at this sacrifice he had been forced to take?  
  
  
  
But, he wasn't sacrificed. That was...good. Wasn't it?  
  
  
  
He looked around the cave, wondering for a moment if this was supposed to be the death of him. He knew if he looked to deeply at his motives, it would have been.  
  
  
  
So what now?  
  
  
  
Right. The boat. His bike was waiting there. Boarded at L.A. Took all of his stash, but they said they'd wait. How long had it been?  
  
  
  
He edged to the mouth of the cave, pulling his shirt closed, and crossing his arms.  
  
  
  
'If you stick a knife in me, would I deflate? Would this awful pressure go away?'  
  
  
  
Now that was a strange thought. Didn't linger on where it had come from.  
  
  
  
Out of the cave, half stumbling across the beach, trying not to trip on his own laces. What a sight he must be, beaten to hell, filthy, staggering and kicking up sand. And he had a crowd. How entertaining this must be for them.  
  
  
  
The man who'd warned him of death stood at the head of them, watching. It appeared the entire village had come to see his humiliation. Ah, there's some emotion. Good on him.  
  
  
  
He stopped, nearly doubled over, and gave the man what he hoped was a glare.  
  
  
  
  
"Bugger off." The first words of a newly souled vampire. He'd thought they'd be more poingnant.  
  
  
  
The man blinked at him, then shouted something Spike couldn't understand. The crowd lingered for a moment more, most reflecting something akin to awe on their faces, before drifting off, going about their business.  
  
  
  
One man, however stood motionless in the swarm, still staring. He was vaguely familiar. Dark skin, short curly black hair. Spike stared back, hoping he looked something like the Big Bad, but the man didn't flinch. He looked...ill. Something was definitely wrong with him, and not just by the fact that his eyes were completely white.  
  
  
  
Spike snorted, and turned, ignoring the voyeur. Boat. Get on board, back to L.A. Another simple, yet highly effective plan.  
  
  
  
Thankfully, the boat was where he left it. The Tapestry was still anchored about thirty feet down the shoreline, where a small bay allowed for the locals to build a dock. The village had sprung up around it, apparently. Must be hard for them.  
  
  
  
Harder for him, considering he still had thirty feet to walk before he could even start his new 'going home' plan.  
  
  
  
It took considerable willpower, and much waving off of people yammering and holding beads or other various knickknacks out at him, but he made it.  
  
  
  
The captain was waiting for him. He was a tall, well built man, tanned from years on the water. He ran mostly underhand cargo, dealt with demons on a regular basis. Even so, his eyes widened as Spike staggered on deck.  
  
  
  
"Looks like you've come upon some trouble. We need to shove off in a hurry? Cause that'll cost extra."  
  
  
  
Spike eyed him, what was his name again? Neil. That's right. He swallowed, his tongue thick in his mouth.  
  
  
  
"No trouble. No need to hurry. Gave you all I had, and you know it."  
  
  
  
Neil continued to look at him, frowning.  
  
  
  
"Well, we ain't got no blood, and you know what'll happen if one of crew vanishes."  
  
  
  
"Yea, toasty vamp, whatever. Open the hold." Couldn't the git see he could barely stand, much less kill one of his beefy, half demon crew?  
  
  
  
Neil rolled his eyes and barked an order to one of his men, who jerked open the trapdoor that led to the cargo hold. Then leveled his gaze back on the vampire.  
  
  
  
"I'll be watching you."  
  
  
  
Spike snorted, and would have flicked him off, if his hands weren't too busy keep his ribs together. A short shuffled, a few stairs, and a thump as he fell to the floor beside his bike, and he was alright. Just needed to sleep for a bit. Then he'd be right as rain. 


	4. Must Embark

Authors Note: Sorry again for the long wait. I suck. That's all there is   
to it. But I did lose this chapter when my comp died, had to rewrite it. I   
really don't think it's as good as I originally did, but hopefully, it'll do.   
A tiny bit shorter than previous chapters. Also, try to remember that   
everything will be from Spike's point of view. At least until I figure out if   
I want this to be an AU season seven fic or not. But for now, I'm just   
taking him from Africa to crazy-in-the-basement. Things might get a little   
confusing. Bear with me?  
  
  
  
  
  
***********************************************************************  
Chapter Four: Must Embark  
***********************************************************************  
  
  
  
"What is love without the pain?  
And what is light without the dark?  
To savor the sun there must be rain,  
'ere we come home, must embark."  
--Rhoni Lake  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There was very little in this world Spike hated more than Texas.  
  
  
An hour ago he had been kicked awake from a dreamless sleep by his good pal   
Neil, who then tossed him a rolled-up wad of cash, proclaiming that there had   
been 'a change of plans'. Seems the officials at the Panama Canal had been   
tipped off to a boat matching their description, and the ship's mage was   
currently on leave. Thus, they were turning around, after kicking Spike off,   
of course.  
  
  
At least he got some of his money back. He'd never make it to California   
with less than half a tank of gas and a brand new shiny conscience.  
  
  
Things never really did go as planned. This he expected. But to be lost   
in a town like Port Arthur, in the middle of a thunderstorm? It had taken   
him nearly an hour to find a highway leading in the general direction he   
wanted to go. The rain apparently was encouraging people to stay off the   
roads, his little patch of black was empty.  
  
  
He pulled into a small truck stop about 15 miles out of town. The cashier   
gave him an odd look as he entered, dripping all over her nice clean floors.   
He summoned up his best glare and pre-paid for his gas like a good boy and   
bought a pack of smokes, not like they would be any use at the moment.  
  
  
As the woman was getting his change, another customer came up beside him,   
staring. Spike gave the man a sideways glance, and earned a smile.  
  
  
"You're cold." A statement.  
  
  
Spike blinked.  
  
  
"Uh, yeah."  
  
  
The cashier raised an eyebrow and dumped his change on the counter.   
Scowling, he gathered it up, and left, feeling the eyes of the other man   
bore into him.  
  
  
He pulled back out onto the road, tires buzzing annoyingly in the puddles   
until he got up enough speed. The storm was turning the world into a gray   
landscape, coming down in sheets, with fat, cool drops that stung his face   
as he sped on. It had started off being annoying; he'd been soaked to the   
bone moments after he stepped off the boat, but now it was pleasent.   
Peaceful. He could make out the thunder over the steady roar of the bike,   
the scent was clean. He was already wet after all, why not enjoy it?  
  
  
Trees begain to appear, lining the narrow road. Some branching out to   
canopy over his head, giving brief respite from the stinging drops. He   
hadn't seen anyone else in over an hour, which was odd, but he didn't know   
this place, so it could be common.  
  
  
He pulled the throttle, and the bike jumped forward, moving faster.   
The man at the gas station had unnerved him for some reason, put him on edge.   
He was thinking, which wasn't good in his current state. He could think   
when he got home. Until then, the process of getting there should keep him   
occupied. He'd hoped. But the long, silent-except-for-the-rain road was   
providing very little distraction, and his mind chose to wander, trying to   
place the man for some reason. And to his annoyance, wondering if he was   
rude to the cashier.  
  
  
His thoughts were cut off abruptly when lightning flashed, and revealed a   
woman standing directly in front of him. He saw her as if the moment were   
captured on film, her dark hair plastered to her face, a long white dress   
flapping wetly in the wind.  
  
  
There wasn't time to stop, he was going at least 80. He pulled the brake,   
trying to turn at the same time, and ended up laying the bike down, cracking   
his head against the asphalt. He skidded, the bike flying into the ditch   
without him, and then rolled to a stop on the shoulder, groaning.  
  
  
Pushing himself to his feet, he limped back toward the woman, holding his   
once again aching ribs. He really, really hadn't needed that.  
  
  
"Hey!" He called, swiping rain out of his eyes. "What's that about?   
Nearly got me killed...."  
  
  
He trailed off, as she turned around, regarding him with sad, lost eyes.   
The front of her dress was covered in blood, blending and flowing with the   
rain, turning into a pink puddle at her feet. He stepped closer, checking   
her over for any wounds.  
  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
  
She shook her head. She was growing paler by the second, still looking   
down at her feet.  
  
  
He reached out to grab her, meaning to pull her from the road, and she   
jumped back, finally looking up at him. He stopped, and she pulled her lips   
back to smile, but all that came out was a rush of blood. Her head lolled   
back, revealing a ragged wound in her throat, spilling blood down her dress.  
  
  
He took several steps back, drawing in a gasp, when she crumbled to the   
ground. After all, what was one to do in such a situation?  
  
  
"You deny us, vampire?"  
  
  
Lightning flashed again, and the white-eyed man from the beach in Africa stood   
before him. Spike stumbled back, losing his balance and falling to the ground. Mud   
and rain splashed up around him.  
  
  
"You would deny us, beast?" The man screamed, his Creole accent sending a   
shiver of recognition down Spike's spine.  
  
  
The scene was illuminated again, and the road was crowded, full of people,   
packed so tight he couldn't see between them. Something warm splashed on his   
face, and he watched in horror as he was drenched in blood that was falling from   
the sky. His stomach heaved, and a tightness sparked in his chest.  
  
  
He didn't realize he was off the road until his back hit a tree.  
  
  
The white-eyed man inched closer, the crowd murmuring and pushing in behind   
him, shifting in time with the rain.  
  
  
"Only in the deed, beast."  
  
  
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the rough bark with   
a thump, biting back a scream.  
  
  
He opened his eyes again, and saw only black for a moment.  
  
  
Then he realized his cheek was pressed against the asphalt. And the taste   
of the blood in his mouth was his own.  
  
  
He pushed himself up, shaking, looking around. Empty road. Normal rain.   
The front tire on his bike still spun lazily. He reached back gingerly and   
touched the split on the back of his head. The fall must have knocked him   
out. Wicked dreams had followed.  
  
  
He got to his feet, and righted his bike, muttering a prayer to whoever   
would listen to a creature like him. He fired it up with little trouble, and   
started back down the road.  
  
  
Just a dream, just a dream.  
  
  
Then why had he crashed, if the woman had never been there?  
  
  
Too much thinking.  
  
  
He knew the white-eyed man, he realized.  
  
  
In the 40's, when he and Dru had toured the Americas. New Orleans had   
been a brief stop. They had gone to a Voodun priest, for fun, to have their   
fortunes told. The man had been blind, but Dru said he could see better than   
she could. Spike had laughed, and asked for his future. The man had looked   
at him, and frowned, before speaking slowly.  
  
  
"You will love more than you will be loved. Heartache and sorrow and pain   
will be the tastes you know."  
  
  
Dru had laughed when he broke the man's neck.  
  
  
The tightness in his chest turned to pain. Who knew that guilt could be a   
physical sensation? Trying to claw its way up his throat, it seemed.  
  
  
He didn't much like the rain anymore. 


	5. Lost Horizons

Authors Note: Um...hi? Kinda useless to apologize for abandoning something 9 FREAKING YEARS ago. I was, I believe the term is 'Kirpeked', when season seven started. I sorta made a new years resolution to finish it, cause I still feel guilty for abandoning it. I won't be pimping it anywhere, I am not editing the previous chapters, even though my writing style has likely evolved over the years. I hope it's not too disconcerting. So if you subscribed to this 9 years ago and suddenly get an update email, I don't blame you for not know what the heck is going on. Many, many thanks to my ever fantastic super beta badfishmuser, without whom I would never have had the courage to actually post this.

Chapter Five: Lost Horizons

"Well you should have known better  
Dead thoughts and lost horizons  
And to take it further  
It don't get any better  
Well out here on the border  
Ain't nobody asking questions  
No I don't need a miracle  
But I could use a push in the right direction."

-Interstate, The Refreshments

` Spike didn't notice when the rain had stopped. He didn't even remember finding the interstate, or the last several hours of blacktop melting behind him. Shutting down his brain hadn't been something he'd done on purpose, but as he roared down an exit, racing the soon to be rising sun, he was grateful.

The front tire of the bike was wobbling a bit as he pulled into the hotel parking lot; something must have gotten jarred in the crash. It took a moment for him to find his feet once he parked. His muscles were still vibrating from the road, making him feel even more disconnected and lost. A bell twinkled merrily as he entered the lobby, the stench of day old coffee assaulting his nose as he made his way to the counter. He still smelled of wet leather and asphalt, something to be expected after coming so up close and personal with it. Now that he was on solid ground, he was weak and exhausted. His legs felt like something had been slowly taking pieces of their structure, making them liable to fold and collapse at any moment.

The front desk attendant looked up from the magazine she was flipping through, her dazed, bored look transforming into rapt attention as she saw him. She was young, and flirty in that fearless way that all attractive, young people tend to be. Here he was, dragging his suddenly souled self halfway across the states with just his own will-power and what was left of two hundred dollars, and she was batting her eyelashes at him. Even a month ago, this would have had him grinning at her and getting a discount with nothing more than a few well placed curls of his tongue. But he was sullen and quiet as she jokingly asked him what he was running from, her eyes glinting, a breath away from labeling him a 'bad boy' even though he likely looked deader than he actually was, which was saying something. He gave a grunt in response, hoping it would be enough, as he thumbed through the bills to pay for the room.

There was something off-putting about her the second he laid eyes on her, but he couldn't quite...At first, he thought it was cause her hair was roughly the same colour as Dawn's, though not half as shiny. But the thick Texas accent quelled that comparison quickly, and it took a moment to...

He inhaled, perhaps to answer a question he couldn't remember her asking, and it hit him. His eyes found the injury that smelled like day old blood: five jagged stitches across the second knuckle of her left hand. She followed his eyes and laughed, showing off her war wound, explaining something about washing dishes more carefully, but he wasn't listening. He was trying not to double over at the sudden clenching of his stomach; the violent warring of hunger and nausea that left him dizzy for a moment. A white hot spark of pain flashed along his throat, as if he'd swallowed something large and sharp. He fought to control himself, and she continued to talk, oblivious to his reaction, which he was insanely grateful for. Some things just couldn't be explained away in casual conversation.

"So where you headed?" filtered through his whirling thoughts, and he focused for a moment.

"Uh, California."

"Oh, I've always wanted to visit Cali-forn-i-a." She pronounced the word as if she were spelling it and he forced a toothy smile. He grabbed his key on it's dirty white key chain with a suddenly trembling hand.

She noticed it that time.

"Hey, you okay?" Her pretty little mouth formed in a delicate frown.

"Long ride. Tired." He forced his teeth to show again, and turned away, leaving the dingy lobby without further parading his weakness in front of her.

So he made it finally to the room, slamming the door and panting to steady himself while his stomach continued to churn. Latest mind-fuck of having a soul; he was starving, but couldn't stomach the thought of eating. Lovely. When had he last eaten? Christ, when had he left Sunnydale?

Wasn't important. Get soul, get home. He could go for a long while yet without eating. He was just adjusting, it took a bit of time, didn't it? Least he wasn't eating rats.

He didn't even turn on the lights as he stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to calm himself. He wasn't even halfway there. He needed to get his shit together and fast, or he wasn't going to make it. Another couple of purposeful breaths, and the trembling had stilled somewhat. He drank a few gulps of water, rinsing the taste of his own blood from his mouth; another reminder of the slip up on the road.

He must have dozed off right before the crash, dreamed the girl up from the depths of his subconscious. It was the only thing he could think of, the only reasonable explanation for what had happened. The other, less inviting one was that he was cracking up, which was completely unacceptable. He hadn't gone and fetched himself a soul just to lose his mind.

_Adjusting, that's all. Buck up, mate, you've made it this far. A little under two nights drive and you'll be home. Then you can worry about going round the bend. _

He desperately needed sleep. Considering he hadn't been awake for more than 6 hours, he thought he should be more alarmed at how exhausted he was. He turned toward the bed, fully intending to crash face down across it and be unconscious until sunset, when he jerked back in surprise.

For a fraction of a second, the bed had appeared to already be occupied. Just long enough for him to blink, and it was gone. He caught a flash of long reddish hair, dark clothing, and...

He was just tired. The bed was empty, there was no blood covered corpse strewn across lily white sheets. Sleep was the only thing in the cards for tonight.


	6. Endure

Authors Note: Thanks so much for all the subscription alerts, and thanks especially to isisgoddess2000 for the comment and the dedication. Makes this all worth while. And once again, thanks to badfishmuser for the encouragement, and special thanks to wolf for the last minute beta work.

Chapter Six: Endure

"How could you ever think you'd make it here?  
Was it greed that pushed your heart through the struggles you've endured?  
You've come so far from innocence,  
Provided all the consequence  
Only what does it matter now?"

The Running Free, Coheed and Cambria

It was an hour before sunset when he finally jerked awake, shaking off the clinging fragments of whatever nightmare he couldn't quite grasp anymore. He fumbled for a cigarette, and had to spend several minutes just breathing to calm himself enough to light the bloody thing. He didn't remember being this jittery the last time he'd gone without feeding for a while, but then again, he wasn't quite fitting in his own head at the moment, so there could be things he wasn't remembering correctly.

A nice, hot shower would calm him enough for the road. He had a hell of a long way to go, and he didn't need this shit slowing him down. Spike eyed his dirty clothing with distaste, but there wasn't much to be done about that; not like he'd packed for this little jaunt. Puling his t-shirt off with only a minimal amount of wincing, he thought for a moment he'd caught movement in the bathroom mirror. Movement that, out of the corner of his eyes, vaguely resembled the same colours and shapes he'd seen in the last photograph of himself he'd had done. But no, there was nothing there, nothing but the peeling wallpaper behind him. Besides, that was _just insane. _He hadn't seen a damned thing.

He quickly stripped the rest of his clothes off and twisted the shower on as hot as it would go, which in a cheap, middle of nowhere hotel, wasn't that hot. It didn't matter though; he was consumed with the need to be clean, free of the blood and road grime that he hadn't been able to wash off since he'd left Sunnydale. He put the mirror phantom out of his mind, decidedly _not_ thinking about it.

The little bottle of shampoo the hotel provided was nearly empty by the time the soap running down the drain stopped being tinged pink. He wondered how the hell something like that had gone without notice for as long as it had. His scalp was still very tender, and he could make out the edges of a gash over his left ear.

There was a thread bare dingy white rag hanging within reach on a towel bar that he soon put to diligent use. This time all he had was a little paper wrapped bar of soap that barely produced any suds, but it would have to do. The water wasn't near hot enough, and getting colder, but it didn't matter. _He was filthy, _and no matter how hard he scrubbed, he wasn't getting any cleaner.

The water was ice cold by the time he noticed that he was scrubbing himself raw; that blood was beginning to pepper his skin where he was too rough, that he was panting and shaking like a blown horse and close to just fucking breaking down and sobbing like...like some crazy souled vampire.

He ran the rag over his face one more time to get rid of any evidence of tears and yanked on the faucet until the water shut off. The towels were way too small to actually dry him individually, but there were three of them and he managed. Knowing that his hair had turned to soft springy curls once again didn't bother him the way it used to.

His cloths smelled of blood and dirt when he struggled into them, and it turned his stomach to have them so close to his skin. As soon as he got home, he'd burn them. Light fire to the whole lot of them, and dig out new ones, assuming any had been spared the Slayer's rage or whatever demon had likely kicked Clem out, and...

He paused, noticing that he was playing with his lighter, and the flame was dangerously close to his face. He jerked back and snapped the thing shut, shoving it into his pocket. More calming breaths followed.

_Nothing wrong here. Just get your kit and get out, get home. Get soul, get home. Fucked up visions and having moments where you want to tear at your own skin can be set aside until later. _

Realizing his kit consisted of what he had on him wasn't as depressing as it should have been. He peeked out from behind the curtain, and determined that the sun was low enough to start out. Shutting off his brain again, he did just that.

Five hours later, some four hundred miles of blacktop and two fuel stops behind him, he was barely hanging onto the bike. He was absolutely exhausted, and it was pissing him the hell off. He'd once driven three days straight with the windows of the De Soto blacked out, and Dru fighting like a wild cat to get back to her precious Angelus. By the time they'd stopped somewhere deep in Mexico, his hands had been covered in burns from jerking her back when she'd tried to dive out of the car in the _middle of the fucking day_. _Even then_, he wasn't as tired as he was now. He blew past a sign that claimed you could visit the world famous Carlsbad Caverns, _only 14 miles!_, and he knew he'd never make it that far. Besides, from what he could recall Carlsbad was a tourist trap, full of people, and right now he didn't even want to lay eyes on a human, much less be surrounded by them. So when the next sign announced the village of Loving, New Mexico, population 1300, he pulled off the road and briefly considered his options. This place wasn't even a dot on a fucking map; there was a 24 hour gas station and little else. He kicked the bike back into action and rolled through town, looking for something abandoned, but everything looked fucking abandoned at this time of night. Finally he caught sight of a few grain elevators with steel buildings attached, rusty from disuse, and figured it was his best option. He hid the bike in the overgrown yellow grass beside one of the buildings, and kicked a door in.

The entire place smelled heavily of bird shit. The windows on the top floor were broken and thousands of pigeons had decided it was a lovely place to make a home. The sun was starting to rise, so he didn't have much choice.

A piece of broken rafter served to wedge the broken door shut. He scouted around, kicking aside faded beer cans and other litter that spoke of teenagers using the place to get high and drunk. The windows were all broken, he discovered, but there was a room without them. He'd slept in worse places, the Watchers bath tub being in the top three, so it didn't bother him much to find a mostly clear-of-bird-shit spot on the concrete and curl up.

His eyes drifted closed, and before he passed out, he sure as hell _did not_ hear Drusilla's giggle echoing through the empty room.

_"It's alright, you're almost there, you can do it."_

_ Tara's fingers carded through his hair. His head was lying on her knee, the rest of him still stretched out along the cold hard floor somewhere in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico. She felt warm and alive beneath his cheek, and for a moment he wondered why in the hell he would dream of Tara watching over him and not Buffy. _

_ "Tara?" he whispered, his voice feeling rough from disuse. _

_ "Shh. Rest. You have to get back to her. She needs you. She is going to need you more than ever. But it's going to be hard, Spike, so hard..." She almost sounded like she was going to cry. Her fingers continued their rhythmic movements in his hair, teasing the windblown tangles from the curls. _

_ He knew, then, why his subconscious had summoned her up for him. She'd been the only one of the whole lot them to ever give him a kind word. In the dream, she even _smelled_ like Tara, that earthy, comforting scent, with deep and ancient power a subtle undertone. Red had always given off a whiff of smoke and fire, like a match waiting to be struck, but Tara was solid. _

_ "I think I am dying, Tara. By inches." he whispered again, his voice unnaturally loud in this place. _

_ "You aren't. You are strong. But something is coming, something worse, and it will swallow them whole if you aren't there. You need to eat. You need to rest. And most of all, you need to get there."_

_ He swallowed, and nodded, turning his face further into her lap to hide the sudden flow of tears. Her fingers where beginning to lull him, and he breathed slow and deep, devouring the comfort and feeling of safety she seemed to be oozing out of her pores. _

_ "Rest, William. Rest and get home."_

The dream slipped away to where ever dreams did, and the rest of the day passed without incident. When he awoke, an hour after sunset and cursing at the fact he'd overslept, the memory of her scent stayed with him as he prepared for yet another exhausting night on the road.


	7. Jury

Chapter 7:

"I suffer mornings most of all.

I feel so powerless and small.

By ten o'clock I'm back in bed,

Fighting the jury in my head."

Have to Drive – Amanda Palmer

Somewhere along the interstate, he lost an entire day, maybe more.

The very last thing he recalled before snapping back to himself and fighting to keep the bike on the road from the shock of it was pulling out of Loving, a feeling of hope and warmth clinging to him despite himself. And now he had no idea where in the hell he was.

Sunrise smelled like it wouldn't remain under the horizon much longer. He had maybe an hour until he'd need to find shelter and...apparently he was smack dab in the middle of a fucking desert.

The moon light cast the entire landscape into a bright, silvery glow, the black highway cutting across it like an infected wound. It was almost painful to look at. The wind was gusty and peppered his exposed skin with sand, making him feel raw and burned. The sand had drifted onto the shoulder of the road in places, the contrast startling no matter how many times he'd seen it, and he suddenly knew where he was. The surreal, bright white color of the sand should have clued him in much sooner.

He'd been in this area before.

He remembered the frantic journey, with Drusilla tugging on his arm and whispering in his ear, her voice lost and broken, and she wouldn't eat, or sleep until they got there.

"The sky will catch fire and only shadows will remain, Spike, Iand I must see it/i, I must. Oh please, we have to go, where the blood will burn for years and years, the earth itself as vile as poison; I must go..." and on and on until he was half mad himself.

They hadn't made it in time, of course. The world's first nuclear test had been in the morning anyhow, no way for them to watch. He knew later that she hadn't been talking about the test at all, but what happened a world away a month later. It'd been years before all the details came out, but when they did she pored over them, her hand trembling over the text like she was divining its secrets, muttering under her breath.

In the end, he was glad they'd missed it. She had cried for days before he was able to distract her from it with three small golden haired children. She'd kept them for almost a week, until...

He gasped and shook himself, tearing the memory from his mind with a jerk of his head. Not. Going. There.

He stared at the brilliant ivory sand curling like wisps of sugar around the front tire of his bike. A green and white sign about five yards ahead reminded him not to stop for long periods of time, and _thank for you visiting White Sands Missile Range! _

He'd slowed down dramatically due to his musing, and narrowly avoided a semi truck that screamed past him, its driver laying on the horn. The whole bike shuddered in the wake of its passing, and he desperately tried to reboot his brain. He pulled on the throttle to avoid another accident, and frantically searched his memories...nothing. He took stock of himself, as best he could at 70 mph, and was startled at what he found.

He was still achingly empty and exhausted, but the pains he'd carried since Africa were gone, replaced by something new. So, not only had he lost enough time to have mostly healed, he'd injured himself again the in the mean time. His wrists were incredibly sore. Any gust of wind that kicked up sand stung like hell. He wanted to examine them, but as much trouble as he was having simply keeping the bike on the road, he knew it'd be dangerous to check.

So he kept on, and rolled into Las Cruces ten minutes later. There were plenty of shit hole hotels to choose from (the kind that didn't ask questions no matter how thrashed you looked) in a town this size and this close to the border. It wasn't difficult to find one that wasn't well lit, with salmon colored paint peeling from the stucco and large pot holes littering the parking lot.

This town had changed quite a bit since the 40s. It was much bigger for one. For another, absolutely everything was painted a god awful combination of salmon pink and turquoise. Who ever had thought of that color scheme needed to die a horrible death. And he _did not_ feel guilty about that last thought, as if thinking it would make some poor sod stuck in Santa Fe be eaten by coyotes or something, _not at all_.

He ignored the fact that he still had the same amount of money in his wallet as the last time he'd checked, despite the near full tank of gas sloshing around in the bike. The man at the front desk ignored him as much as possible. It was nice not to have to put forth the mental effort to come up with a decent alias. No words were exchanged after money was, and he made his way to the best room 20 dollars could buy.

As soon as the door was shut he sagged against it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes with bruising force. He gulped in frantic breaths to try to still the shuddering that was suddenly racking his entire body, but it wasn't working anymore. His legs buckled, and he slid down to the floor, giggling helplessly at the mental image of shaking apart and shattering all over the floor in a shady motel.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and blew out another breath, focusing as much as he could under the circumstances. Opening his eyes, he caught sight of his hands, and they were filthy. Dark brown blood clung under his nails, which oddly, were mostly broken. He didn't recognize his own hands. This had him laughing again, a desperate sound that tore out of his throat for want of screaming.

He continued his examination, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up on his left arm. His wrist was swollen and bruised, a red scabby ring circling it like a grim bracelet. The other sleeve was quickly pushed up and he found the same on the right. He'd lost control of his breathing again, becoming almost detached as he noticed that it was bordering on panicked.

Suddenly he wasn't alone anymore, and there were hands holding him down, pushing and pulling and cutting, dark hoods hiding stinking breath and scarred faces, and _it was so silent _apart from the screaming, and that'd be why his throat was sore. Then the silence was over and something was speaking, the words curling like snakes in his brain, and he longed for the silence again and the hands and the cutting, because this was worse, and...

He'd thrashed enough to slam his head hard against the door of the motel room, and apparently that was enough to jar him back to himself. He was panting and shuddering like a blown horse, nails digging into his own palms.

Dragging himself to his feet, he blanked his mind. He ignored the whisper of laughter that followed him when he slammed the bathroom door and scrubbed his skin raw again, only satisfied when not a trace of blood remained on his hands. He went through the motions of shaking sand out of his clothing and boots before climbing naked into the bed. Spike held himself completely still and stared at the wall for some time before he registered the voice, and a thrill of terror crawled up his spine.

"Now now, pet, none of this sulking. Up you get, must learn to be a good dog before I let you out."

He turned his head and stared wide eyed at Drusilla. She was standing at the foot of the bed, a pure white gown clinging to her curves.

A short time later, he forgot this night too.


End file.
